


dancing under red and blue skies (and we dream)

by ricciardos



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Character Study, M/M, alex has some thoughts about his podium, or rather: i lament red bull culture for the second fic in a row LOL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:34:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26478802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricciardos/pseuds/ricciardos
Summary: There are a few scattered claps here and there when Alex returns to the pit-wall. Christian claps him on the back twice, before retiring to his office.(Presumably to draft up another contract.)(There it is again -- relief. Relief that his career isn’t over before it started.)
Relationships: Alexander Albon/George Russell
Comments: 21
Kudos: 58





	dancing under red and blue skies (and we dream)

George, traced fingertips on Alex’s stomach, whispers: 

“What’s it like?” 

Alex pretends not to know what George is asking. He intertwines his fingers with George’s, barely visible in the dark of the motorhome. It’s a tight fit with the both of them, but it’s not like they can request for a bigger bed at the hotel given its team accommodation anyway. 

“To what?”

“To get your first F1 podium.” 

Alex shifts his position to stare at the ceiling, all too aware George is watching his lips and waiting for an answer. 

Alex wants to say many things. 

Well for starters, it’s nothing like what Charles or Lando promised. 

Lando promised elation. There was none. 

Charles promised celebration. There was none. 

The night of his podium, he only feels relieved. 

It’s such a sick, _sick_ feeling -- to feel nothing but a burden lifted off your shoulders when you’ve scored your first F1 podium of your entire career. Something that should be monumental, that should smell like champagne, that should feel like hoarse throats after screaming victory, victory, victory- 

-

There are a few scattered claps here and there when Alex returns to the pit-wall. Christian claps him on the back twice, before retiring to his office. 

(Presumably to draft up another contract.) 

(There it is again -- relief. Relief that his career isn’t over before it started.)

-

On his end, Alex’s mechanics are patting him on the back, but there are no exclamations of a job well done or excellent driving. There is only exhalations of _fucking finally_ , and _third time’s a charm_. 

On the other side, Max’s entire garage has packed up. There is nothing but a bright red 33 stuck on the wall, and a spanner left on one of the tables. Max’s own door is closed, and Alex can see that the lights are off. 

Perhaps, under the relief there is a perverse bitterness. 

(Bitterness, that he wanted to see the look on Max’s face when he beat him for the first time.)

He remembers getting dragged after his own disastrous race result to take the team photo, his PR manager squeezing his arm and reminding him that _This is going on the website_ , and to _Smile because it’s pretty obvious even under the mask_. 

Max’s P1 glistens in the sun, his race suit still glittering and smelling of the cheap champagne that F1 uses. He’s laughing and smiling with the engineers as Alex joins the front row, clutching his own P5 board with knuckles that are slightly bruised from driving and palms that are stained red and blue from the earlier promotional activity that they did with paints. 

(Try as he might, Alex cannot seem to wash them off.)

(Prior to the photo, he had been standing in front of the sink for at least 15 minutes, scrubbing and scrubbing with all different kinds of soap to try and get the stains off to mend and restore the skin on his raw and aching palms.) 

_It is the mark of a Red Bull Driver_ , the voice whispers and knocks on the door of his mind’s eye. 

_You never come out the same way that you did when you stepped in._

Soaring dreams, promises of World Championships. 

Bruised knuckles, and the raw, aching sensation of being torn down and painted over again and again with red and blue paint.

-

“Well obviously, you feel happy.” 

“Do you?”

No, he doesn’t. 

Alex feels trapped, binded by the trophy sitting on his bedside table. 

Tell him then, is this relief he feels? 

Or is it a dangerous cocktail of having nowhere to go, and relief that you have somewhere to stay? 

Another year at Red Bull. 

Saying it in his head feels like a vice slowly tightening around his wrists, a shackle chaining his ankles to the ground until he is bloody and bruised, for a third time in the row.

_Would you rather be anywhere else?_

-

**_Breaking news: After achieving his first podium in F1, Alex Albon has reported that he is taking a step back from Red Bull to move to Alpha Tauri, with Pierre Gasly as his new teammate. We pass the time to our analysts at 6pm, to see what they make of the move._ **

**Author's Note:**

> over the days, i've been wondering why i'm not as happy for alex's podium as i should be (even though i burst into tears HAHAH) and i realised: it just hurts to see the lack of support he’s getting, as well as the lack of autonomy he has in his own future -- therefore, i'm crafting out a little au for him here，also known as a universe where alex finally gets the support and happiness he deserves with the autonomy to make that decision for himself 
> 
> (autonomy -- what a powerful, powerful word) 
> 
> kudos and comments always appreciated! find me on tumblr @albon-and-gang


End file.
